Delta, Echo, Alpha, Romeo

we spoke on the phone delta, echo,

alpha, romeo all the tiny wicks

of dread curling their small

fires deep into my heart.

In Al Udeid, you said, the wind

in the sand was not quite

a lament, nor did your plane

mean certain death. Tell me,

then, how you loaded

the bombs, how you parted

the air, how the ocean divides

breath between us. In Doha

you followed the sun

to the Gulf. Not once have I

believed we’ll be spared.